


Bright Above You

by lutzaussi



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-17 09:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lutzaussi/pseuds/lutzaussi
Summary: They meet after decades in Paris. It is raining, of course. For KakaIru Fest Classics Prompt 1.





	Bright Above You

“His last contact with us was in Belgium, from his hotel in Arlon, we have no knowledge of where he traveled after that,” the voice is tinny through the telephone. “You said you were calling on behalf of…?”

 “Mister Umino’s sister,” Kakashi Hatake clarifies, marking notes in shorthand in the small, leather-bound journal he holds. He has great practice, holding the telephone and the notebook, and he shifts them from hand-to-hand as he adds, “Anko. She currently has charge of his son, and they have yet to hear word from him.”

 “Well, I can tell you that he was staying at the L’hôtel Parisien in Arlon, and he was scheduled to reach Serbia by today, and Romania tomorrow. Do you want the name of the hotel he intended to stay at in those places, as well?”

“Please,” Kakashi says, writes down the information when it is given to him. Once the man on the other end has hung up, he does as well, thanks Tenzou for the un-official use of his telephone.

“This is the young man you grew up with?” Tenzou asks, before Kakashi can avoid the topic by leaving. He nods, stiffly, in return. “I assume there is a reason you do not talk about him?” Tenzou continues, somewhat carefully.

“It is in the past,” Kakashi settles on, after a few moments thought. “And I would prefer to leave it there.”

Tenzou nods, though one of his eyebrows is artfully arched in a gesture that means he does wish to know that history. Kakashi ignores him, gets his coat, and leaves the office.

London in October is chilly. Welcome in that, in Kakashi’s opinion. It is not wet in addition to the cold, which is even more welcome, makes his walk a windy delight of blowing leaves and clean air, the five streets over to the hotel he is quartered at. It is not so much a hotel as it is a boarding house, but he does not care for those sorts of particulars; the woman letting the room nods to him when he enters and goes up the two staircases to his rooms.

 Solitude is a relief, especially in the face of Tenzou’s questions. The two of them have regular correspondence, and Tenzou occasionally takes holiday in the country town Kakashi lives in, but to try to explain his relationship with Iruka Umino to those unaware of it opens up too many old wounds. Hell, it is not so farfetched for him to say that thinking of Iruka opens old wounds. In fact, the only reason he is in London running on this fool’s mission is because Anko threatened to hunt him down and shoot him with her late father’s rifle if he did not assist her, and he knew from experience that she would follow through.

 Inside, he allows himself some relaxation, some few moments to stretch and pull his coat off, toe off his shoes to leave near the door. The rooms are more those of a small apartment, complete with kitchen and full bathroom, and he takes a momentary diversion to start some tea before going to his notes.

 Anko had not heard from her brother for a week; the practice he worked for had heard from him a mere two days before. According to Anko that was not the usual. If he had to call his office, he would also call her to let her know where he was, and if his itinerary had changed. Kakashi taps the names of the hotels, the numbers of the trains that Iruka was supposed to be on with the end of his still-capped pen. He can try and call around, but with the unreliability of finding telephones on the Continent it seems a better bet to head down to Arlon on his own.

 “Sleep on it,” he tells himself aloud while pouring the hot water of the kettle into the pot. The green tea is fragrant and he lets it steep, rubs the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into the corners of his eyes. The chill in the air wreaks havoc on his left eye, dries it out worse than wind alone, not to mention the aches that settle in his back whenever the weather turns cold.

Getting shot does that, he is reminded. So does age. Kakashi gingerly rubs his eye as he retrieves the tea leaves from the strainer in the pot. Maybe he should get an eyepatch; that would look rather dashing.

When the next morning comes, early but not necessarily bright, Kakashi has made up his mind. He is going to Belgium; it will not been far by boat and train, and though Iruka is some days ahead of him Kakashi is a veteran traveler, very much accustomed to getting onto trains that are otherwise full.

The boat ride is quick, as quick as the Channel can be, but the train ride is nearly painfully long. Not that his mind is on the view; no, it is back in London. Naruto and Anko agreed to go on holiday, to the countryside cottage that Naruto’s birth parents had willed to him, but he also feels seeded with worry. Never mind that he has not seen nor directly spoken to Iruka for a near-decade; he knows that the man is dedicated to his family, a trait he has always had.

So he needs answers to more than just the where; more importantly, he wishes to know why. In some far-off part of his mind it has occurred to him that, should he not find Iruka, all of those questions would remain unanswered and that is not an ending he is alright with.

First he is off to Arlon, to check whether or not Iruka was actually there and see if he did depart as planned on the train to Serbia. If not, he needs to figure out where Iruka did go, if he left the city at all, and most importantly why. It is a big task, and a big favor to take on, but Iruka is—

Iruka is worth the favor, he thinks, despite how long it has been.

Arlon is not as dreary as London had been but it is colder, when he arrives. The overnight was a good idea, and he is just in time to find L’hôtel Parisien opening their restaurant for lunch. Most opportune. Kakashi does ask after Iruka before eating, finds that he did stay, and left the day he was supposed to. No placed calls other than the one to the London office, and no mentions of where he was headed.

Lunch is a quick affair, and when done Kakashi heads back to the train station.

The stationmaster is not much of a help at first; once Kakashi mentions he is a former investigator of Scotland Yard, the man is much more willing to talk.

“The Herr Umino was bound for Belgrade yesterday morn,” the man says, checking the log books in the office, moving a half-eaten sandwich and a pot of coffee off the desk as he does so. “But he never boarded that train; he bought a ticket for the Paris train, leaving at a quarter to 11. Wait, you said a young man with dark skin and brown hair? A scar across his nose?”

“Yes,” Kakashi says. Closer and closer to the truth.

“I do recall him being delivered a telegram; he seemed in rather a rush, agitated when he came for the Paris ticket. Is the Herr in some trouble?” the man inquires.

Kakashi doffs his hat, nods to the man. “I certainly hope not.”

Buying a ticket to Paris is the next logical step, and within another half hour Kakashi is aboard a steam locomotive with his carpet bag, heading on the short trip to Paris. He has three hours to stew, and decides his best course of action to be a nap. So, he tips his hat over his eyes and sleeps.

Paris is as crisp as London, though not as cloudy, and the air gives Kakashi a feeling of hope. He did not know that Iruka had connections to Paris, but, then again, he supposes he does not know the man that well after all. Since his luck has so far been rather good, he stops by the stationmaster’s office to ask if an Iruka Umino had stopped by for anything.

“U, U, Monsieur Umino,” the woman at the office flips through pages of ticket sales, scratches her nose with a capped pen. It is in a very apologetic tone that she says, “You might want to check with the telegraph office, they keep records of everything. We have not had our receiving logs updated for several days, but by tomorrow evening we should have complete lists of everyone who arrived on that particular train. In any case, he did not buy a ticket from this station, so the Monsieur is likely still in or near Paris.”

“Thank you,” he says, also trying to focus on where he can exchange some money; he has not been to France in years. The stationmaster nods absently, already bustling away to help someone else. He makes up his mind to check the telegraph office, but he is interrupted in his thinking by a woman touching his arm.

“Did you say…?” She turns fully to him, her face hard to see under the gauzy black netting swathing her face. “Did you say Umino?”

“Yes?” he says in return, the statement coming out more of a question.

“And you are acquainted with the man by that name?” she asks, tone strange, hard to place.

“Indeed, do you know him? Or his current whereabouts?”

He guesses that she is looking at him, under the netting, but he cannot see her eyes. An unnerving feeling. “I suspect he is at that poor man’s apartment, still, near Rue Bennet.”

Any wish to ask her more dies on his lips as she all but glides off, toward a man in similar, black dress. Kakashi watches them go, thinking all the while. Rue Bennet; he knows the street, several shops but many more apartments and houses.

Before that, before anything, he goes to the telegraph office in the station, sends out a missive to Anko telling her where he is and where Iruka supposedly is as well. He desperately hopes that Iruka is in Paris, but does not want to hope, because hope gets him nowhere. Kakashi finds a room in a hotel near the train station, despite telling himself that he is not hoping, before setting out for Rue Bennet.

The streets are crowded as they normally are, but it works in Kakashi’s favor as he turns onto Rue Bennet. Most of the crowd is congregated around a series of row houses, where the black car of a doctor and the black van of an undertaker are parked. In the crowd, through glimpses as the people move, Kakashi can see a familiar shade of brown hair, near the door of the house marked 11.

There is no sense in trying to force his way through the people, so he merely stands and waits, for nearly an hour, until most others have departed. Eventually, as if he is expected, a young woman in red comes to him from inside the house, holds out a slip of paper. “From Monsieur Umino,” she says, rather unnecessarily, and returns to the house instead of waiting for him.

Renard’s, 1930. That word and the time are all that the paper says, and Kakashi sighs. More waiting, but with the promise of at least some answers at the end of it.

Renard’s is a small, elegant restaurant on the Seine, and in the evening it is bustling with couples and business-people alike. Iruka has a reservation, but he is not yet there by the early time that Kakashi is, so Kakashi finds himself seated near the front window and plied with wine by a very charming young waitress.

Iruka arrives with very little fanfare, dressed in sober blacks that sharply contrast what Kakashi remembers of his personality. “Early, as usual,” Iruka says when finally seated, and Kakashi can’t help the beginnings of a smile.

They eat in silence, really, until Kakashi decides that the ice really does need to be broken and he might as well wield that particular pickaxe. “Going on sudden holiday from work?” he asks when they have had their afters, and the waitress has brought them some damn fine coffee.

“It is not exactly as you think,” Iruka says. Despite how thin his smile is, he does indeed look sincere. He looks out of the window, past the outside tables unused in the weather, and lets out a small, nearly inaudible sigh. One hand worries his coffee cup, moving it side to side in its plate as he hesitates, then speaks. “I am guessing that Anko was the one who contacted you?”

“You guess correctly.” Kakashi tries to be terse but he is mostly just relieved; funny, that.

Iruka sighs again, the sound more audible, and stays looking out at the gathering clouds when he speaks. “I was on my trip for the office when I received word from Paris that an old friend had run into some trouble.” The way he says friend makes it seem as though there is multiple layers to the word, but Kakashi ignores his own inquisitiveness, nods for Iruka to continue.

He keeps fiddling with his cup, but he does speak and he does not stop. “You never knew him; it was after I was placed in the orphan’s home. He had been there for several years before me, but unlike me he was never placed with a family; he remained once Anko’s parents took me in. His name was Mizuki.

“It follows that we went to school together; both of us ended up at Oxford, where we, er. Lost contact,” he pauses, “No, not that. I suppose we had become so different that I ended contact with him. At some point he became almost obsessed with chemistry and alchemy, and he was no longer the person I knew.”

There is silence. Iruka slugs back most of his coffee, and laces his fingers together, stares at them. “He did remain in contact with me once he moved to Paris; he sent news, every year or so, until suddenly he began sending more letters, monthly, and then weekly. Those stopped, suddenly, a couple months ago. I tried writing him, myself, and I tried calling to inquire with his friends here in Paris.

“They told me that he had not been seen in a couple weeks, but it was normal; I assumed he had become busy with some new idea for work. It was only when another school friend of ours, Genma, wrote me saying that Mizuki had been in the company of a rather unsavory character who had been implicated in a murder.

“I did not know more than that, not until I got the telegram,” Iruka says, and his voice is softer, his hands still. “Mizuki had been found in his apartment, apparently dead by his own hand. It is not quite my story to tell; Genma and another of our friends were more involved than I, but he made some—fantastical serum, which transformed him when he drank it. It turned him into the character that Genma had worried about.

“I know this sounds fabricated, completely false, but that was what was told to me,” Iruka finishes, unlaces his fingers, and pushes himself back from the table, donning his hat in a swift move. “If you do not mind, I have some business to deal with; after the funeral tomorrow I will be free. Good day, Kakashi.”

Kakashi nods in return, and stays to ruminate. When he does go to leave, he finds that Iruka has taken the check.

Their relationship, Kakashi has always felt, was of the doomed sort. The kind that in Shakespeare’s works ended in tragedy on all fronts, or in too-late confessions of the tradition of Cyrano. His own cynicism depresses him, he has no trouble admitting, but he cannot believe that he is wrong.

By the time he leaves the hotel the next morning he is suitably depressed, mood rather matching the rain that is pouring down. He has never been in Paris when the weather has been favorable, and this of all times he has forgotten an umbrella. Lucky, then, when he finds a shop down the street selling all colors of the things.

Properly kitted out for the weather, it is down to the Seine. Despite the umbrella, he is nearly half-drowned when he makes it to the small cemetery. That just makes everything all the worse, because there’s nowhere free from the rain among the headstones.

Iruka is already there, among the mourners, an umbrella of his own doing its best to keep the water off him. Kakashi stays back a respectful distance, stands under a tree that is less drippy than the open sky, and watches. The priest is Catholic, shaded by a large umbrella held by a man in somber dress. Kakashi is just far enough off that he can only hear when those gathered say “Amen.”

After the ceremony, when the people slowly begin to scatter away from each other, Iruka makes a straight line back to where Kakashi is.

The downpour has nearly turned to sleet by the time they make it to Kakashi’s hotel, which is closest to the cemetery. Kakashi feels rather stupid about it, but more than anything he does not want to leave Iruka alone. While he still is in the depressive funk he built up that morning, part of him feels foolishly hopeful. About what, he cannot be sure.

He orders tea for them, and a cold lunch to be sent up to his rooms. His rooms, which are blessedly warmed after their time in the rain.

The food is good, and they eat in silence, but this time it is more companionable. In any case, Kakashi spends the entire meal worrying about what will come after they finish, if Iruka will leave. Though he believes everything the other man told him the night before, there still is a sense that Iruka has not told him everything. Maybe he is being paranoid.

Iruka does not leave, after they have eaten; the sleet is still hard and fast outside, and he seems to be putting off his return trip.

“What happened?” Iruka asks, when they are both in front of the fire considering each other. “After I left Scotland? Anko tells me you went to university then joined the Yard.”

“Ah, all the way to Inspector,” Kakashi says, taps his scarred eye. “I retired a year back, got shot one too many times for my liking.”

That earns the quirk of Iruka’s lips, even if his expression is disbelieving. “Now you write?”

“Now I write,” Kakashi agrees. Though he wished Iruka was not privy to that particular information; his writing is not the sort typically discussed in genteel company.

“I never would have imagined to find us here,” Iruka says, sighs, and looks up at the clock upon the mantel. His tone stays wistful as he says, “I should be off.”

“Has the rain gone?” Kakashi rises to go check; it is dark out-side, but he can still hear the water falling.

“I have an umbrella,” Iruka says, standing but not moving.

“I do wish to apologize,” Kakashi says, stepping closer to Iruka. He suddenly feels rather bold, and no trace of his earlier depression can stop him.

“What do you mean?” Iruka asks, one of his hands coming up to cup Kakashi’s face. Kakashi finds his hands moving, unbidden, to curl around Iruka’s waist. Boldness abounding, or maybe just common sense after too many years.

“I realize,” Kakashi says, and the truth comes to his lips no matter how ashamed it makes him feel, “I pushed you away. I made myself believe that nothing between us would work out.”

Iruka sighs, the sound somehow amused and long-suffering at the same time. “You are a nihilist of the worst sort, Kakashi Hatake. You did push me away, and I allowed you to. What are we to call this, then?” he asks, tapping a thumb against Kakashi’s chin.

“Re-entering orbit,” Kakashi says, and gently tugs him forward for a kiss.

 


End file.
